Front Row
by CookingKiller
Summary: -Shawn/Cena- 'The sun is barely shining outside, some green curtains further filter its light almost everywhere in the bus. He imagines it's close to waking up next to Shawn.'
1. Chapter 1

_Just trying myself at Shawn/Cena. As random as usual.  
And not my best writing I'm afraid :(_

* * *

He imagines it's close to waking up next to Shawn.  
The sun is barely shining outside, some green curtains further filter its light almost everywhere in the bus; it's as quiet as it can get. Could be a room. Could be in bed.  
Eyes are closed, some mouths are half-open, and only a few snores disturb the silence. He forgot who's sitting behind him, but he's sure as hell going to prevent that guy from ending up here again. And wonders how Shawn managed to fall asleep. How they all managed to fall asleep.  
For now he's too busy thinking, about matches, about cars, about music, about the man next to him and the closeness. His head keeps slipping, slipping on the side, always getting closer to John's shoulder.

Nonchalant was the way to go – to try to go – when they stepped in the vehicle. Don't sound eager, don't look hopeful, or the other way around. Not asking him to sit next to you, it's just a possibility you inform him of. Randomly. And the steps seemed higher, the bus seemed larger, too many seats, too many seats. Stopped bickering with the boys and walked on, looking around, trying to hear a certain deep voice. All that, nonchalantly.  
Shawn was muttering something about the cold, of course, he was tired, he was hungry (John searched his pockets for forgotten snacks; nothing) – not a good day. But here they are in the end, sitting next to each other, Shawn on the side of a window he hardly glanced at before falling asleep, John left staring at everyone else. At that tilted head.

He moves, to his left, uses his back to somehow shake the seats a little, and, and here you go. There's a weight on his shoulder. And what to do now? He starts noticing things. A golden glow. A free lock of hair. The angle of a neck. A hand near the edge of the seat, next to his own, so close to his own. Thinks about closeness again. What if he moves his hand, accidentally, touches those fingers, accidentally? It's like sliding your arm behind the chick you managed to drag to the theater, it's all accidental. And it's the same kind of nervousness.

Shawn mumbles something in his sleep, gets more comfortable on his shoulder – John can only freeze. Go back at touching with the eyes. Keeps noticing the details. Nose. Jaw. Stubble. Lips. Lips. Lips. Fucking lips. Kind of chapped. Kind of inviting.

_Look away._

Can see Jericho on the other side of the aisle, headphones on and heavy metal so loud John can hear the sounds, some _psst wee psst psst _that apparently rocked him to sleep. He's one of those who drew the curtains closed to hide from the sun, and there's no golden light on him, and there's no pretty detail to notice. John's eyes don't focus on anything, when what seems to be a perfect jaw hypnotized him minutes before. And he wants that again.  
Having him sleeping on his shoulder should be enough of a satisfaction, dammit.

Turns to look outside. Nothing but a few buildings, some dying trees, people. Nothing beautiful about those.

Shawn moves again, his eyes immediately fall on him. Curses, but that's not going to make him look away. Lips. Lips. Lips. Lock of hair.  
His hand has a mind of its own, right at this moment. It's not willingly that fingers brush the hair, tuck it behind an ear, stay there a little while. The sane part of his mind pushes him to look around for stares of some kind – nothing. All sleeping, busy – they could be alone. They're alone. Or, rather, he's alone. With him.

It begins to look like an opportunity. He can, definitely can get so close to Shawn's face some other times; in the ring. In front of thousand and thousand of people who certainly aren't sleeping at all. Wouldn't be able to stare and touch, not like that.  
He remembers a moment of tension, awkwardness, where Shawn looked up and he looked down, and something passed in between. Maybe want. Then Shawn flashed him that white grin, and was gone. John's heart pounded away, the rest of the match was a blur. And Shawn asked, "what's up with you, kid?" and he never answered.  
He doesn't really know what the hell is up with him anyway. When he turned into some romantic fuck. Just that it begins to look like an opportunity. To...to...

His tongue passes over his lower lip, and a buzz suddenly reaches his ears. From Shawn's pocket. Cellphone.  
Fucking cellphones.

His eyes haven't started to open yet that Shawn's hand goes to the phone. John focuses on the outside before they do. Buildings, dying trees. The head doesn't move from his shoulder. Hears the phone open, a sigh. And the weight is finally lifted from his shoulder.

"Sorry 'bout that..." Shawn mumbles, eyes still on the tiny screen.

"It's alright, man." More than that. It was part of a plan, almost, and it went down satisfyingly. Almost. More than alright. While it lasted.  
He tries to sound cheerful.

"I didn't drool all over you, did I?" He actually glances at his t-shirt with a smirk. Of course he didn't. But, _shit,_ _I did. _Figuratively speaking. Like the boy with the teenage crush he's becoming. Is already.

And now he can also stare at the greyish blue of Shawn's eyes, the fingers moving over the pad, and all the other little things he downright admired seconds ago. It's worse than a teenage crush. It's a crush doubled with fanboy worship, for fuck's sake.

"You're comfortable." And a chuckle.

John doesn't think. "Go ahead, then." Won't think again.

Shawn's eyebrows go up and he shoots him that incredulous smile. John taps his shoulder.

_The hell are you doing._

Shawn looks around much like John did earlier, putting the little black cellphone back in his jeans, murmurs a "how can he sleep with that stuff" when his eyes reach the seats right next to theirs, and eventually goes back at his sleeping position with a shrug. Head on shoulder, hands close. Smells of colognes mix. The lock of hair falls from behind his ear again. He looks up. John looks down. There's no match to continue this time, no grin flashed at him, no mat. Almost no tension, and isn't that a first?

_The hell are you doing. Look away._

But he doesn't, gets closer. It's all about closeness. So focused on the lips, doesn't see the eyebrows going down this time, knitting. And it's conciously that his hand is lifted up this time, settling on the back of a neck after sliding underneath the beginning of a ponytail. And John's heart pounds away.  
No, it's different from the high school crushes and your arm around the shoulders of your first so-called date; they don't imply so many things, have no risk of a fist flying to his cheek (a slap at worst). Not even the same kind of nervousness in the end.

It's worse.

He clearly hears his own breathing, Shawn's. His eyelids want to fall. His mouth is dry, and approaching those lips. The neck he trapped backs away, he tightens his grip.

"John."

It's not a sigh, or some romantic whisper. A warning. Eyes still shut, he doesn't know what expression Shawn is sporting. Doesn't know what kind of warning that really is. 'Don't you dare do that.' 'We shouldn't.' Or something else, more negative, more positive; he doesn't know shit right now.

And leans in. There's a sharp intake of breath before lips bump into each others, stay awkwardly pressed.

_Holy..._

"John." Faint voice against his mouth. Far less intense warning.

A buzz again. He doesn't want to let go. Shawn tries to back away again. He doesn't want to let go...

The need for oxygen makes him, many seconds later. Shawn uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, the other hand already holding the cellphone, John winces at the gesture. Wants to run out of the bus, faster than ever. Jump. Crash on the road. Die with the dying trees. If anything the shock to his head would wake him up, make him realize what the hell he's been doing. All he's really aware of is his ribcage threatening to explode.

He risks a glance at Shawn. Almost completely turned towards the window, looking at it. Most of his face hidden. Shoulders tensed.

John needs to run. And jump.

* * *

_For those who liked it...no idea how soon an update will come._


	2. Chapter 2

_...the experiment continues. And supposedly ends here.  
Can't say it was easy for me to write Cena, I probably didn't even get him right...well you'll be the judge of that._

_I chose Jericho as some third character because I absolutely wanted a smoker (let's not try to figure out why). Right when I started writing he tweeted about cigarettes and I thought...how convenient._

* * *

"I'm sorry."

So many lines passed through his mind in the past minutes (hours to him), but it's what comes out in the end. Not even sure he really is sorry. It seems like the good thing to say, and does he want to just say something right now, instead of running away (he can't, anyway). To break that quasi-silence. There's still the sound of Jericho's headphones, of the wheels on the road and the snores behind him, but the silence feels heavy between them.

He glances sideways. Shawn isn't completely turned towards the window anymore, stopped gazing at the outside. It's darker now, huge clouds fill the sky, and the warm glow faded away. It doesn't affect the pretty features, he notices. Keeps noticing.

"Don't be," Shawn answers quietly. Scratches the denim of his jeans.

"Look, man, I—"

"Just don't do that again, alright?" And looks right at him, now. His eyes are a cold sea John is drowning in. Dying in. He needs to come up for air. The insane part of his mind wants to dive further in. And, of course, it takes control again.

"Why not?"

He was almost hoping Shawn would look at him like he was crazy. But he just looks cold. Annoyed. And his eyes wander around, his head tilting. _Not here.  
_John lowers his voice, and even smirks a little. It's a different kind of intimacy, their whispering to each other instead of simply his taking in every detail of that face, body.

"Where can I do that again, then?"

Shawn moves closer to him, and his heart starts pounding again. Blue is all he sees. "You can't."

And for a moment, that heart stops. His mouth, though, keeps going. And going. "Why did you let m—"

"I didn't_ let_ you."

"You did." His tone is light. Fake.

In the corner of his eye, John sees a hand curling into a fist.

And he closes his own hand over it. The hand jerks away – _not that quickly_ – and ends up in long hair, fingers sliding over and through. Coldness seems to be replaced by confusion, or nervousness, or something, something that makes those eyes unfocused while they look at anything but him.

John's fingers are still curled in mid-air. Shawn's are now rubbing his face, his eyelids.

Another try. "I'm sorry." It looks like a break-up. Shawn still has his head in his hands, elbows on knees, unmoving. It gives John a clearer view of the leather-covered back. He wants to trace the groove of his spine. Clearer view of the long ponytail. He wants to play with those curls.

"I understand if you're scared."

"Scared of what?" Muffled his voice sounds even deeper.

He shrugs, eventhough Shawn can't see him. "Facing..."

"Facing what?" Angry. He's not used to that tone. Not when they don't have mics, not when there's no spotlight. Not when it's all real.

And while his heartbeat speeds up once more, the bus progressively slows down, stops at the side of the empty road.

_That's when you get up and run the fuck away. _

The snow is everywhere outside. There's a deep forest, darkness contrasting with the white ground. Nice place to get lost in.

_Just like you wanted._

Some guy says they're taking a break. Someone else might have talked to him at some point. But Shawn is standing up, and quickly getting out. A second of an even clearer view of the leather jacket (there's a tiny spot at the bottom). Clearer view of the jeans. What brand they are. What they clad. '_Wait' _dies before even reaching his mouth. His cellphone rings before he can follow.  
Fucking cellphones, again.

And when John finally hits the ground, all frozen, all snowy, Shawn is nowhere to be seen. The wind makes his eyes narrow. Tear up. The sky looks wicked. And when he's not hearing the rhythmic noise coming out of his headphones, he feels – and smells – the smoke coming out of his cigarette; Jericho beside him.

"Searching for Shawn?" Sounds like it amuses him.

He turns to meet the smirk he was expecting, before the head jerks to the left along with a thumb. 'The other side of the bus', he guesses. 'Shawn is there', he hopes. Stops staring at the curious blue eyes – _they're warmer than Shawn's were_ – and hurries in the direction Chris pointed at.

Back against the vehicle. Even tied, Shawn's hair is flowing around. John approaches, slowly, as if Shawn was going to get frightened and run off like some wild animal. Sees the tabacco tin in his hands, but it's just there, unused.

Getting closer. Shawn's jaw is set. His eyes are focused on the road. And the ground isn't silent under the weight of John's big feet, but there's no acknowledgement. He doesn't really know if it's a good thing or not.

Shawn looks up, eventually. Once John is close enough to notice pretty features again.

"Sorry again?"

He just nods. What else can he do. Shawn stole his "sorry", so there's only nodding left.

"What are you trying to do?"

_I have no idea. _He had a plan, before. Got out of hand. _I have no fucking idea. _"I guess I'm just trying to..." A car rolls past them, way too fast, and Shawn's eyes are back on the road. "..show you."

A frown. "Show me what?"

The stupidest words pop up in his mind then, three of them. Little. Impossible to say. Might not even be true. He still doesn't know. He still doesn't know shit. But he's diving right into the cold sea again, and there's really no one around this time, could be completely alone, could be in a room, could be in bed. A cold room. Bodies tangled in frozen sheets.

Shawn barely shifts when John's hand tucks a lock behind his ear, for the second time. Uselessly; the lock is quickly moved by the wind. But he didn't move; Shawn didn't move. His ear, his skin is icy. He lets out a shaky breathe, John can see it, and mumbles something like "I keep talking in questions" before crossing his arms. The leather jacket can't possibly keep him warm enough. His right hand goes up, and he starts biting an already shortened nail.

It just escapes John's mouth. "I love you."

The schoolboy feeling is overwhelming.

Shawn's eyes squeeze shut, a second. He shakes his head. Shivers – the wind is getting colder.

"Don't say that."

John stares, and ends up saying "okay." Using the fake light tone.

Shawn shakes his head again, but says "you're right." The wind almost covers that weak voice. His Adam's apple bobs. "I don't want to deal with that."

He wonders what 'that' is at first, then remembers. _I understand if you're scared of facing... _

He doesn't want to really understand, in the end. A part of him is silently rejoicing; it's not that Shawn doesn't want him, he doesn't want to deal with it. Not that he doesn't want him. The rest is a confusing mess of feelings. Negative. And he feels colder than ever. He doesn't want to understand.

His mouth opens, to blurt out other stupid words he shouldn't blurt out, probably, but Shawn is leaving. Hurriedly. Head low. Hair flying. He wants to grab the locks. Grabs his arm instead, and pulls. Shawn flashes him yet another glare and tries to shake his forearm out, but they're not in a ring, John doesn't have to let him go, and pulls once more. The other man stumbles backwards, right into him.

"Shawn..."

He can see Shawn's fast breathing in the frozen air. "Let me go."

Somewhere on the other side of the bus, someone is yelling that they're ready to leave.

"I don't want to." He dares a smile. Further closes the gap between his lips and any part of that face he'd be able to reach.

And more yelling. John pointlessly turns his head toward the sound, Shawn breaks free. Almost runs away. Like that frightened wild animal John had thought he could be.

He meets the warmer blue eyes again after a walk all in slow motion, when ready to jump in the vehicle. The cigarette is gone.

"Give it up, kid."

Chris climbs in before him, and slowly makes his way to his seat, somewhat proudly. John merely frowns at him. All of his thoughts are on the tingling of his fingers; they remember gripping leather. The faint warmth underneath. Chris doesn't know what he's talking about.

And then Chris sits down. Next to Shawn.

He's staring at the outside again, biting his nails again, just on another seat. Just away from him. Glances up a second, and John dares another smile. Weak. The eyes quickly go back down.

"Gonna stand here forever, Cena?" The guy behind him doesn't seem to care about all that. _Maybe, jackass._

Sitting where Shawn was sitting. He gets to press his forehead against the window now, furtively wondering how dirty it is. Not wondering who's going to be next to him. Not wondering how the rest of the day, of the week, of the month is going to be. A pale reflection of his face mixes with the landscape. His left eye shines and stares right back at him. Everything is dead outside. Everything could be dead inside, too. There's nothing to notice anymore. There's nothing he wants to touch. Breathe in. Stare at. His ears pick up a low rumble of a voice, far on the side. Then a laugh. He winces.

_I don't want to deal with that_ keeps echoing in his head. And what he thinks it means. What it has to mean. Not that he doesn't want him...not that he doesn't want him...

The bus starts moving, and John closes his eyes. Clings to that comfort.


End file.
